


Crying Wolf

by devils_trap



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, LYDIA AND STILES SECOND BFFS FOREVER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emergency. Emergency? Emergency. That’s vague, that’s really vague. Is it like…a fire emergency? Fuck, dropped the keys. Or like an Us emergency? Fuck, fuck, fuck. I guess in Derek’s case fire could be an Us—fuck, fuck, fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crying Wolf

Stiles is tenderly, carefully, tentatively melting butter and marshmellows, trying his damnedest not to burn them while racking his brain for the  _exact_ recipe his mother used to make her famous BK bars (blondie M&M brownie on the bottom, homemade rice krispies with chocolate drizzle in the middle, and equal parts happiness and fear for the Sheriff’s heart on the very top), when he gets the text.

He absently paws at his back pocket, hands missing the opening the first two tries and successfully sliding home on the third, until he grabs his cellphone. It’s a feat, monitoring the temperamental goop and keeping it from burning while unlocking your phone and reading a text, but Stiles manages.

The text alert message brightly showcases Lydia Martin’s name in a bubble, waiting for his ACCEPT or DECLINE. It obscures his phone background, a candid Allison took of Stiles and Scott asleep in the middle of an AP Government lecture. Lydia’s behind them, looking equal parts fond and unimpressed.

He and Lydia have been close friends since the whole Alpha pack fiasco junior year, and now, mid-November of their senior year, Stiles would call her his second best friend. He hums fondly as he thinks about how his freshman self would react to this, Lydia Martin being his  _second best friend_ , and chuckles a little.

"Better off as friends anyway," he mumbles to himself.

They text often, usually about the Pack, but sometimes about trivial stuff, like people they’re interested in, or how wrong a teacher is on a certain subject (Stiles’ favorite is when the Latin teacher is translating texts wrong, Lydia gets  _livid_ ), or the best way to get blood out of clothing. The contact photo he has of Lydia is a shot of her sleeping on the busride back from a southern California waterpark, their junior year retreat trip. Somehow, even dead asleep and kinda drooling on his shoulder, she manages to blow most people out of the water in the looks department. Stiles thinks it’s part of her powers.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite process the message until his fifth reread.

> **Lydia Martin (11/16/2013, 10:49PM):**
> 
> Emergency. Come over ASAP.

Then he calmly, gently, slowly turns off the stovetop eye, places his pot of mostly melted marshmellow goop on the other side of the stovetop, next to the cooling pan of M&M blondie brownies, takes a deep breath, and then runs out of his house.

_Emergency. Emergency? Emergency. That’s vague, that’s really vague. Is it like…a fire emergency? Fuck, dropped the keys. Or like an Us emergency? Fuck, fuck, fuck. I guess in Derek’s case fire could be an Us—fuck, fuck, fuck._

He breezes through red lights and stop signs, fingers crossed and shaking against his steering wheel, hoping to God (“And Werewolf Jesus,” a memory of Isaac calls) that no cop stops him. He turns a curb too sharply two streets from Lydia’s house and hits his head against the Jeep’s roof before he can correct himself. The skin stings, throbs viscerally like his rabbitheart pulse. He doesn’t touch it, even after he’s thrown the Jeep into park diagonally across Lydia’s driveway, nor when he’s half-climbing, half-falling out onto the cement, but he’s pretty sure the skin broke and he’s bleeding.

The front door of Lydia’s house is locked, and after pressing hard on the doorbell for a handful of seconds to no avail, Stiles throws up his hands and looks for an unlocked window. He finds one in the back and climbs through it, chest tight with thinly managed panic, and finds himself in Mr. Martin’s study.

"Lydia? Lydia!" he calls, tripping over himself to exit the room and climb the stairs to Lydia’s. There’s no answer. A metallic taste fills his mouth, his hands shaking harder. "Lydia!"

When he gets to Lydia’s bedroom door he throws it open, phone brandished like the piece of shit’ll do anything to anyone human, let alone a supernatural intruder. Whatever, he’s ready to throw down if he needs to. He’s been getting lessons in self defense from Scott and Isaac and he’s sure he could hold his own. Or at least lessen the ass kicking, whatever.

"Oh good, you’re here," Lydia says, hands on her hips in front of her open closet.

"L-Lydia? Lydia! What the fuck? I thought you were being attacked or-or I dunno? What the heck!" Stiles throws his arms out in the doorway. Hits his knuckles on the doorframe and doesn’t even wince at all. "I was gonna fight for you  _with my phone!_ ”

Lydia walks until she’s in front of Stiles, hands still on her hips. She looks unimpressed (as unimpressed as she does in Stiles’ background picture) for three seconds before she sees the blood on Stiles’ temple, and her face falls. She collects herself quickly and walks to her vanity, an old, heavy wooden structure painted a crisp off-white. She rummages for a few seconds through a pulled out drawer, then closes it with her hip and walks back to him.

"I didn’t say it was an  _emergency emergency_ ,” she admonishes, but her eyes are soft as she gingerly dabs at Stiles’ cut. Panic fading, and Lydia’s hands so close to his face, Stiles can smell fresh nail polish. Out of the corner of his eye he can see mint green and what looks like white polka dots.

"You didn’t say much of anything except  _emergency_ and  _ASAP_. For all I knew, you were being kidnapped by some rogue omega or some witch. To be mauled and-or ritually sacrificed!” All the same, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and slumps as the panic fades, fades, fades from his system. He thinks for a second about getting angry, but the thought is just as soon gone from him. He’ll settle for indignation tempered by fondness.

"Fashion emergency, supernatural emergency," hums Lydia. She gives him a small smile, lips naked and a soft red-pink. Now that Stiles isn’t, y’know, worrying about her possible impending death, he sees that besides the nail polish, Lydia is distinctly unmade. She’s in a loose white v-neck t-shirt that Stiles  _thinks_ was his at one point, her breasts soft and plush beneath the cotton, and a pair of baggy flannel pajama bottoms. She’s not wearing any make-up besides an oatmeal based moisturizer, and her fiery hair is thrown up in a sloppy bun at the top of her head. 

Even dressed down and getting ready for bed, Lydia Martin is the most beautiful woman Stiles Stilinski has ever seen.

He’s suddenly, incredibly humbled by their friendship. Humbled by the fact that not only does Lydia Martin openly associate with him, laugh at his jokes, teach him and allow herself to be taught in return, but she lets him see her without her armor. His forehead is bleeding, he nearly had a panic attack, he broke  _so_ many driving laws getting here, and he  _actually_ broke into the Martins’ home, but Stiles would do it all again just to be able to see this: Lydia Martin’s soft edges, Lydia Martin without her warpaint, her armor, her sword and shield.

For show, Stiles closes his eyes and takes a long, slow breath. “What do you need?” Stiles asks. When he opens his eyes, Lydia’s already back in front of her closet, arms crossed in front of her. She’s biting her lip and tapping the top of her forearm. Her feet are facing each other, toenails painted a delicate mint green to match her fingernails.

"I’ve got plans for tomorrow. Not like plans but  _plans_ ,” she says sagely, sparing him a look. When he nods, she looks back at her closet. “I’m going to a dinner to see about getting a scholarship for college. I want something that says  _I’m smarter than you_ but also  _I’m incredibly humble and sweet, but not too sweet_.  _Sweet like candy but also if you look at me wrong I’ll eviscerate you._ ” _  
_

Stiles snorts and makes his way to her bed. He pushes aside what he guesses are discarded tops and bottoms, and sits down cross-legged in the space he clears. He studies her back, watches her rifle through her closet. “So far what I’m getting is a Catholic school girl dominatrix-esque getup,” he tells her, and he can _feel_ her eyes rolling at him. “I dunno? Sharp pencil skirt, simple? And a blouse of some sort? Why did you ask  _me_ of all people? Allison would’ve been a better choice.”

She hums in agreement, head going gingerly from side to side. “Yeah, well, as much as Allison would’ve been a bigger help, I need your input ‘cause we’re going together, and we need to match.” 

"Me? Don’t you have to apply for these things? I never applied, Lydia," he scoffs.

"I applied for you, don’t worry," she answers. She looks over her shoulder and gives him a sickly sweet smile. She blows him a kiss and turns back around. "I probably should’ve picked out your outfit first but, oh well. Can’t always have the best idea the first time around."

"Wow," he laughs, "I wish I had that recorded. Lydia Martin admitting she’s not the best at everything."

"I’m not the best of everything," she agrees. She turns to him fully and places her hands on her hips again. "You’re the best at sucking, and I’ll humbly defer to your expertise in that area."

Stiles’ hands fly over his heart and his face scrunches up in mock-hurt. “You wound me! Have fun going to this dinner yourself.” He slowly, lazily, glacially makes his way to his feet.

"No, no no no, sit back down!" Lydia calls, and she throws herself at him. The impact knocks the wind out of Stiles’ chest. He complains, and Lydia  pats his chest companionably. " _C’mon,_ Stiles! Help me choose!”

"Why couldn’t we have done this at a reasonable hour, huh? Like, when I wasn’t melting marshmellows and making BK bars?" he groans.

"Oooh, are those the bars your mother used to make and bring to school for us?" Lydia’s face softens again, and she gently plays with the flipped up tips of Stiles’ hair.

"Yeah," he answers softly.

"Let’s pick out my outfit, go get more marshmellows, and head back to your house," she suggests. "Then I’ll eat all the bars while you try to find something to go with my outfit that isn’t plaid."

Stiles smiles, and it grows wider as he gets an idea. “Let’s do this fast then. I wanna text everyone else that there’s an emergency and that they need to come to my house. They’re gonna probably slash my tires for it, cause they’re not as forgiving as I am-“

"-naturally-"

"-but they’ll enjoy the food."

"Can we not? Just us. Or, well. Just me, eating the BK bars while you go through your dressers."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://wildwolfsbane.tumblr.com/post/60338801800/stiles-n-lydia-second-bffs-stiles-is).


End file.
